


those bitter songs you sing

by crookedsaint



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Allusions to Alcohol Use, Depression (but like. a cat is narrating it so), Maincord-Inappropriate Strong Language, Second person POV, once more i indulge in fic about my own music, pov you are just a little kitty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-25 10:48:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30087963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedsaint/pseuds/crookedsaint
Summary: The writing of Declan Suzanne's hit single "shutout," from the perspective of his teammate (who is also his cat).
Relationships: Socks Maybe & Declan Suzanne, Tillman Henderson/Declan Suzanne (mentioned)
Kudos: 12
Collections: We Are Fanwork Creators





	those bitter songs you sing

**Author's Note:**

> heavily inspired by the song "plea from a cat named virtute" by the weakerthans! and, of course, by shutout (by me). in this fic, socks speaks by echoing words they've heard before. think a feline soundboard? anyway, enjoy!

You weren’t sure when Suzanne had last eaten. His eyes were fixed on his monitor like it was a window, his neck bent as though he was ready to pounce. The tension had no discernable origin, though, no delicate bird just beyond the glass, delicious and unguarded. All there was were words. Words, short videos, songs with brass and guitar and sighing, whining humans singing about human problems. Cheating. Marriage. Growing too old. Being too young.

You hadn’t thought anything of it until he started writing his own. He came stumbling home from a bar—you thought nothing of the posture—his coordination usually failed after a long shift—but he  _ reeked.  _ You flicked your whiskers at him, disgusted, and he didn’t even talk back. He was holding a guitar, not the kind that could screech at a moment’s provocation, but the kind that beat more like a drum. It looked familiar, but you didn’t care why.

You had a more pressing mystery.

“There was that party… no, fuck, that doesn’t scan.” He was hunched again, hunting for something. His phone sat on the bed in front of him—an ever-tempting target, but you’d resist the mischief for tonight. His screen glowed bright, then dimmer, brighter again as he rudely awakened it over and over, jotting down whatever he was writing.

You didn’t want to interrupt him. Not this time. Watching was far more interesting.

Sometimes, after, you wondered if distracting him then would have stopped it from getting worse. You supposed it was nice that Townsend came over, even if he brought ghosts into every room he was in. He was company for Declan. They were company for you. But as the days dragged past with no finished song in sight… you would not admit you’re worried, because you are, after all, a cat. That isn’t your job.

You did know someone whose job it was to worry. You slept in their bed.

Joshua Butt was worried already (when weren’t they?), but it was you who creaked Suzanne’s door open at night when he was making those terrible hissing noises, you who sat down on Butt’s lap when the two of them were on the couch together so they’d finally get to the point,  _ you _ who brought Suzanne the bird so Butt could finally see what a mess the carpet was. You know, before the blood and gore you so pride yourself on. 

You’re not soft on the kid. That’s Butt’s job.

In the meantime, despite Butt’s best efforts, he was still declining. He kept a similar schedule to your own: sleep, outside, sleep, outside, stare at a bright square, sleep, outside. You told him as much (in Butt’s voice, no less), and he laughed, and he didn’t  _ understand.  _ He used to have people over who weren’t ghosts.

Ghosts might be able to pet you, but they couldn’t ever reach Declan.

It was too bad. You liked Tillman. You pitied him for falling in with the Firefighters, you playfully tormented him for Butt’s sake, but you _ liked  _ him. He made Suzanne stick to a tighter schedule. An early start as always. A trip back to his room in the middle of the day, Tillman in tow, some free attention (he’d kept his nails longer than Declan did, which you’d always appreciated). Peaceful twilight hours you could have to yourself to roam the halls. In the darkest part of the night, an extra snack, if you meowed loud enough. Then, sleep like a rock. All this when he was on the day shift, of course—reverse the above if Chicago needed him, rather than the other, wimpier gods.

It had been a much longer, looser day when you finally admitted to yourself you didn’t  _ like _ what was happening. You did not  _ like  _ Tillman coming back, because Tillman didn’t actually come back. He was alive, supposedly, but he came around even less often than when he was stuck on Townsend like old gum on the underside of Suzanne’s bed. Worse yet, Suzanne was working on the song again.

By now, he’d abandoned his stupid pretense that it wasn’t about Tillman. Good, you thought, until he started that awful whiny bridge about death and rebirth or whatever he cared so deeply about. It hurt your ears. You told him so (Rivers told him so, in your mouth, in her words), but that didn’t stop him from playing it over and over and over and  _ over _ —

It had been a long, loose day, time unspooling like so much yarn in your claws. And so, finally, you abandoned your dignity and intervened directly.

“Socks, no, that’s my  _ lyrics,  _ come on—”

“[Stupid] [long] [stop]. [Attention].”

He laid a hand on your head, scratching absently at your ruff. “I need to record this. The deadline’s in a few days. Tomorrow, actually.”

“[Declan] [stupid]. [Time] [short]? [Call him].” The last words were Lou’s, said too many times to count.

“You too? You wound me, you animal.”

“[Humans] [animal].”

“Point.” He sighed, falling backwards onto his nest of blankets. “You want me to take a break, huh?”

“[Attention].”

“Right, yeah, that’s the important part.” He patted a space on his side, the negative left by the curve of his torso. “Been too long since we gossiped, anyway.”

“[Not] [gossip]. [Attention].” When have you  _ ever  _ gossiped with Declan Suzanne?

“Fine, fine, it’s all about you.”

You curled up next to him, playing as content as you could manage. “[All about you],” you echoed.


End file.
